


November

by mrsprobie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Azkaban, Depression, Drabble Sequence, Gen, Loneliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-11-11 13:37:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11149518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrsprobie/pseuds/mrsprobie
Summary: A sampling of November nights Sirius Black spends in Azkaban.





	November

**8 November, 1981**

Sirius Black groaned through the bars of his little Azkaban cell. "When are you letting me out of here?"

As usual, there was no reply. He had been there for an entire week, and that was one of the many things he had learned. Among his other newfound knowledge: paper does not make a suitable replacement for food, and it is either impossible or incredibly difficult to cast a wandless Patronus.

He slid down to his knees, then let himself fall sideways, staring out through two bars. You couldn't even grip them properly; the protective spells wouldn't let you stick your hand out far enough for your fingers to wrap around to the other side. It was very difficult to properly mope, even with inspiration like Sirius had.

"This wasn't supposed to happen," he said. He wasn't sure if he was telling himself or the guards. Maybe he was preparing for his trial. He rubbed at the newest stain on his uniform, a bit of blood from when he'd scratched too hard at his arm while… thinking. "This wasn't supposed to happen."

**29 November, 1985**

As usual, Sirius was lying on the floor, staring out through the bars and waiting for the twice-daily round of footsteps. He'd learned they weren't ever going to come for him and take him away, but they reassured him on some level that the outside world was still running. Despite the veritable tragedy of his life story, the world was still running.

He was quite busy reflecting on his tragedies and didn't register the brief pause in the footsteps until a piece of parchment fluttered down onto the side of his head. Jumping up, he pored over it. It was the first bit of written communication he'd had in at least a year.

It was word of his mother's death, written in Moony's familiar scrawl. He doubted he would ever forget what Remus's handwriting was like. He found it difficult to care about her death, and instead found himself wondering if he'd be able to feel anything when Remus died. He hoped so. She'd died of dragon pox, a common ailment in those of her age. His father had died two years before, and his brother had been gone before the end of the war. He supposed Kreacher would be alone in that miserable old house now.

He'd pity Kreacher, if the elf wasn't such a little shit.

**3 November, 1989**

Sirius dimly registered that it was his thirtieth birthday. As a kid, he'd always assumed he'd be… married, stable, _old_ when he was thirty. He'd imagined being surrounded by his friends at a party, maybe a second child on the way. He'd be a family man, and he'd be a sap about it.

Instead, laid across the floor of his cell against the back wall, he stared through the prison bars. He'd taken to staying further back from them, and the benefits were twofold: first, he was further from the Dementors, and in his human form, even the smallest distance helped reduce the chill and darkness. Second, if he let his vision blur (and it did so easier than ever nowadays), he could pretend that the dark of the prison was the night sky blanketed in clouds.

**12 November, 1991**

Not for the first time, Sirius wished he had access to an owl. Harry had started at Hogwarts in September, and would have just recently relived the horrors of Halloween. He thought that Sirius was responsible for - he thought that it was Sirius's fault, that he had _betrayed_ them. Harry needed to know, needed to understand that this wasn't supposed to happen. Not this way.

He wondered what Harry was like, what he liked, what he hated, whether they would ever _know_ each other, and in that moment he would have killed to be able to send the kid a letter. He'd explain it all, he'd find a way.


End file.
